The Girl Without A Face

I talked to my father yesterday, it was a nice conversation. I made jewelry as we chatted. Somehow comforting to hear the same war stories. Or the stories about the days where the mob was active in our city. Burning buildings was the norm, he saw it first hand as a firefighter. He’s halfway stuck in the past, but also able to find joy in the present. He plays music, he has big plans for his band, he draws and paints and reads. He just turned 75, 40 years my senior. It’s something I told him I admire about him, the way he has a passion about life. I’m sure it’s because when he was a teenager he was drafted, he didn’t have a choice at that time. So throughout his working years, he chose a job that would fit his deep rooted feelings. He would run into burning buildings when most people would try to escape them.

My dad moved away several years ago, away from our hometown, where he grew up. He sold the house he owned, where I lived until I was 12. He met a woman who promised to take care of him, and I think that’s all he’s ever wanted. Although he has a tough exterior, he still needs a little coddling. He needed his space when I was little, and when my mom left he drank away his pain. Now he lives with a new family, but yesterday I could sense some regret in his voice. Maybe it’s because I’ve come to peace with how things turned out, maybe its because I know I may not see him again. Maybe because I’m ok with talking to him on the phone once every couple of months. I let him know I took the good parts, that there was something he had that left an impression on me. I let him know via text that I listened to Pink Floyd while I was driving. That I got chills when the vocals came in on Shine On You Crazy Diamond. I remember my first introduction to them was when I was 12, The Wall a gift from my father.

As we spoke yesterday, he said he was going to send me some old photos from the 1800’s. He doesn’t know where to put them, I’m the reliable one in the family. I told him I would appreciate that, that I framed that picture of Grammy he sent. I tell him all the time how I think of her, that I wish she was still here to visit. I let him know the postcards that she wrote to her mom back in WWI are displayed on my wall. That I’m even thinking of getting a tattoo of some of the artwork. I always thought it was beautiful. How I have the other pictures he left in the art room where I make jewelry. They are still preserved in their envelopes, the way they used to protect pictures back in the old days. I told him Grammys hummingbird is sitting out on a shelf in my living room. Her antique ornament is safely inside a display case on a shelf as well. He seems at ease once I tell him that.

My father has always been an enigma to me. Is he selfish, selfless, in pain? What is he thinking? How can he handle all the weight he carries? What is buried underneath? For a long time I wondered if he even liked me. I tried to be something else thinking he would like that more, but it seems these days he is silently proud of what I’ve accomplished and overcome. He would never say it outright. Displays of emotion are not something men do. I saw him shed a tear once when we buried my Grandma. Not when his brother died, not when my mom left. Not even when I was by his side the grueling months my grandma was in hospice. Just once at the graveside, just for one moment. I hugged him and he let out the emotion.

The older I get the more I feel I understand him. Being misunderstood was always part of his personality. But now every time we talk I make sure to say things to let him know I hear him. I may never see his face again, but at least he knows I’ve listened.